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By Marcia Aldrich| June 16, 2014
The day my father died, my husband and I drove in the bright, tilted light of autumn, past farms, pastures, and ponds, finally arriving at the orchard. We parked the car, picked up two half-bushel bags to fill, and walked up the trail of powdered dust, fine as confectionerâ€™s sugar, that led to the grove. Thatâ€™s when I noticed themâ€”my fatherâ€™s shoes on my husbandâ€™s feet.